


Secrets

by extremesoft



Series: Secrets [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: (tagging to be on the safe side), Angst, Body Horror, Break Up, Death, Forced Vomiting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Self-Doubt, Self-Mutilation, Sexual Content, Sort Of, Unhealthy Relationships, please for the love of jeepers stay away if you're looking for good times, uncertain if this counts as sexual abuse but it sure isn't nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2020-10-05 12:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20488829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremesoft/pseuds/extremesoft
Summary: Drabbles/short texts of higher ratings or otherwise sensitive content.(First text originally posted as an individual work titled "22, 23")





	1. Pierre: 22, 23

**Author's Note:**

> This would've gone to my pile of drabbles nicely too but this is- I think it's a bit too much for that, so. Last weekend's been a turmoil on many levels, for many, and this is simply an attempt at an out for me. Perhaps this can serve as something like that for someone who reads this as well. If it does, I'm happy. Content warnings: death, sadness and, as tagged, forced vomiting. Sorry about, uh, this.
> 
> (In case anyone's curious - the title and a big chunk of this work as well were inspired by [this](https://landoavocado.tumblr.com/post/187420107075/this-broke-me) post on tumblr, where Pierre's tries to unravel the shock of losing a close friend at a young age are quoted. Poor, poor guys, all of them.)
> 
> A round of warm hugs for everyone. ❤️

For a moment it feels like everything simply dies.

His insides have been gnawed by the sickening feeling of inferiority ever since the news of his demotion, sure. He should have been able to deliver, he should have been able to be better, he should have able to at least fucking _challenge_. But no, never in a million years, he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t- all he ever saw was tail lights and all he ever saw was the painfully evident disappointment in him when they bathed in Max’s success in all RB social media while barely mentioning him having ever driven the sister car and all he ever saw was his own humiliation in the looking glass weekend after weekend, staring wearily back at him as though he had been foreign even to his own reflection.

It’s not something he’s used to. Feeling like that. Like it's all in vain.

It had already felt more than he could bear, to shatter the summer break bubble and return to Spa. To return but not truly return - to get back to being the number two even among number twos now, somehow, having actually been given a chance yet not able to seize it (for whatever bullshit reason) feeling even worse than merely entertaining the gilded notion _one day someday I will_.

(He’s just not good enough, it’s all that has been proven by the unfortunate error of judgement from emperor Marko and his flock of lackeys, blow after blow after blow in the form of his own thoughts to his own childish ego-

\- )

Then Anthoine goes on Saturday and even the seeming pointlessness of it all loses meaning.

Pierre sees a re-run of the crash not long after and the pain that hits his gut is unfathomable. The car’s in pieces across the track, wheels, dust, speed everywhere, _slow down everyone slow down fuck don’t crash into the wreckage_ \- it’s a whirlwind that simply overcomes Pierre and it cuts right in the middle of his numb nothingness (as if he had used up all of his disappointment) over having qualified fourteenth, and it cuts with a glistening blade of horror and shame. He has at least qualified. He has survived another day to emerge from behind the wheel, ungrateful to the bone, and sink into himself again.

Anthoine returns home in a casket. To return but not truly return.

Pierre makes himself vomit late that night. Once. For kicks, or relief. It does nothing to the pain still writhing in his stomach, or the nothingness, or the sickening feeling of inferiority - all it does is bring dry tears to his eyes and lay his indescribable despair in front of him in a ruthlessly ugly physical form. _Is this what I am_, Pierre thinks as he coughs the bile trying to stick to his throat out by force and brushes the edge of his lip with a shaky hand. _How can I get back into the car_-

_this takes everything from me._

dignity 

self-belief 

friends 

body 

sanity 

life? 

-

Then it hits him, this strange kind of clarity, when he reaches to flush the toilet, closes the lid and sits on the cool floor to listen to the fading sounds of the water. Anthoine wouldn’t want him to do this. It feels like such a cliché, the elusive calm in the middle of a hurricane they’re all always searching for; and it makes Pierre almost smirk, or cringe, a bitter-tasting opening forming in the corner of his mouth. Anthoine wouldn’t want this. This isn’t him. They chased the dream together - and it all now seems an antonym to a dream, a pit gorging everything and then some, but

for Anthoine, it’s for him. _If nothing else, stop this now and race for Anthoine tomorrow. This isn’t for you._

His legs feel so weak he almost loses faith halfway to bed.

For a moment after the race it feels like everything simply dies. Alex takes a glorious P5 after shit qualifying and it further grinds Pierre into dust of dust of dust. Point taken. He’s ninth but Daniil still artfully ends up in front of him. Point taken. He rehearses saying _it’s good to be back at Toro Rosso_ like a simple line in a play, on the stage that is the press pen, and he says it right and it’s a blatant lie, of course. He stares the reporter dead in the eye and wishes he could scream _this takes everything from me_ instead and that it would stay to ghost in someone’s dictaphone long after he has hid somewhere quiet to force the tears out.

everything

The kisses from Cate don’t reach beyond his lips that weekend.  
  
  



	2. Daniel/Max: Amends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as stated, I wrote a bit more and then decided to turn an individual work into, uh, a dump for those shorter texts I don't want to post a) publicly and b) separately. I'll tag the best I can but if/whenever needed, I'll also include content warnings in the notes, no worries there. You're all free to throw prompts at me, it may sometimes take time to fulfill them but I'm always doing my best. ^^
> 
> Now, as for this second thingy - the only good thing in my head at the moment seems to be the ability to write Maxiel like I've never written it before, and it's thus a relatively ugly little piece we have here... Sorry about that. Content warnings: possible implied child abuse (it's more of a question of whether it can be read as such but I'll tag and warn nevertheless) and an unhealthy relationship bordering on sexual abuse, I think that's the most accurate description of it. Let me know if I've missed something worth tagging.

  
_A heart is worth less than not having one_ has Max learned to think. It’s inevitable - a necessity, really - in these circles, to realize that sooner or later. So when Daniel calls, Max goes, more than willing to take new wounds on himself right next to the ones he's already nursing.

He should have put a stop to it the second Daniel announced his departure. It had started to sour little by little before that already, Daniel's smile somehow seeming smaller and his hands feeling coarser each fleeting time. Max would ask, Daniel would deflect; and he would look at Max with the golden flecks in his eyes he always carried there, and Max would swallow it, too far gone with his love to have a choice.

Daniel had grown wearier as the autumn had dragged on, angrier, and Max had taken it. He deserved it, he must have deserved it, a price to pay for his own good fortunes, and Daniel was worth so much better in his turn, deserving of whatever Max could sacrifice to soothe the agony slyly weaving itself into them. After a while Max would find himself being simply glad to have been of use every time after Daniel had come to him, ravaged him in eery silence and left not long after having bled his frustration on him. Max had caused it, after all - somehow - indirectly, perhaps, but it still had somehow been Max's doing for sure - and if it could serve as his way to make amends, he would bend without question.

He has always been good like that.

It’s been roughly a year. Daniel fucks him raw after Singapore and grunts "I hope you're fucking satisfied" right after climaxing. He pulls out quickly, crashes onto his back for a short breather and then heads into the shower without ceremonies to wash Max off himself again. Max lies flat on his stomach, the stains between his thighs cooling, the sweat sticking to him making him shiver more than the currents of stinging pain. The mattress dips sharply when Daniel rises and walks away. 

Max tries to bat the burn away from his eyes because it’s stupid and there’s no need for anything like that. Why wouldn't he be satisfied? He has just gotten another podium. He’s the number one in his team now like he’s been told he needs and wants to be and his father is not that disappointed in him anymore. Daniel still fucks him, sometimes even bothers to make him come too. Max can be nothing but thankful for any, every moment Daniel can spare him nowadays, and he clings to them with the despair of a wreck drowning quietly in an illusion. The shower runs and runs and makes heavenly white noise for Max to get lost into.

He’s not only fucking satisfied, he’s _happy_, he thinks.

He doesn’t dare to say anything.  
  



	3. Lewis/Charles: Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles' efforts do not lack adamancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhh. No, I have no excuses for this horror whatsoever. This is just plain ugly, and I'm very sorry about this disturbed-sounding travesty of a ficlet I simply had to get somewhere out of myself. Now, I can't stress enough how important it is to heed the tags and this warning about how appalling things the following contains - even though this is all very much a metaphorical description of imbalance, it goes to what I consider a detailed level of describing physical mutilation, pain, self-harm and other things of that sort (while also including references to drugs and religious themes). So, if you're sensitive to (body) horror, topics like self-harm or suicide, or violence, I strongly recommend to _please_ take very much care before diving into this, and if necessary, think twice before reading at all. My apologies, once again.

There is no other high but the lowest of lows. There exists no drug as tantalizing as Lewis is, and should it be his wish, Charles would be willing to overdose and cave in right before him, eyes blind and blown agape.

_You’re such an incredible talent_, Lewis says while handing Charles a rope, colourless and tightly woven, flowing with the pliancy of led around Charles’ pale wrist as he accepts it. _Put this around your neck and hang yourself for me, give it everything you’ve got._ And Charles' efforts do not lack adamancy; the dull braiding cuts him deep when he coils it around his throat and ties the other end to the shower, hands hard and unafraid, Lewis down on his cock with the zeal of a starving man. Charles' knees gradually collapse along with his spirit, his eyes widen and veins split to colour them with a scarlet hue, and his neck cracks with a horribly uncivilized sound as a cruel climax when Lewis whispers _for me_ and makes him come all over himself.

Charles hangs there afterwards with his lips turning blue and stone cold, spine molten into a limp, grotesque angle, and wonders how he can still be breathing. Perhaps he can get through and untie himself, after all. Snap his own neck back to place and paint life back onto his mouth. Lewis zips up his jeans.

_Honestly, I think you’re going to achieve so many great things_, Lewis lauds in another moment while handing Charles a poison, lucid and still, the cool glass on Charles’ palm not reflecting anything - no lights, not the voids that are his eyes. _Take this one for me, I would so much love to see what it does to you_. And Charles asks nothing at all when he parts his obedient lips and tilts his head back, lapping every single drop he can reach despite it scorching his tongue and gullet away with every desperate gulp. He convulses in agony, crashes on his knees and vomits rubies at Lewis’ feet, and Lewis puts a gentle touch on his hair in silence. Charles’ being vanishes in the white-hot pain and the stench of his burning sinews etches into his subconscious when Lewis tightens his hold and pierces him to mere shatters, and he fills with ashes and acid that foam out of his mouth and smear the carpet with fluorescent grey.

Charles stays there afterwards with his body bent by violent throes and left into a misshapen tangle on the floor, the corners of his jaw glistening with bile and gore, and wonders how he can still be breathing. Perhaps he can get through and purify himself, after all. Cleanse both his blistered corpse and the carpet with the same sanitizer. Lewis bats away the wrinkles on his shirt.

_I have so much respect for you_, Lewis praises while handing Charles a knife, then, the gilded hilt biting greedily into Charles’ palm as he touches it, head bowed in unquestioning adoration. _I want you to put this through your chest, carve your guts out and lay them on the floor for me_. And Charles, ever infallible in his rapture, graceful in destruction, follows the path the words lay. It does appal him at first, the way he can feel the blade sliding so effortlessly into him as he impales his own gossamer flesh and his own blood colours his hands screaming red, yet he breathes through it like a porcelain-faced martyr and reaches inside himself to rip his heart out first - through the skin and skeleton, through the tissues of his muscles and lungs. He holds it between in his trembling fingers, offering a eucharist of blood and pulse, doesn't have the strength to look at it himself any longer. Lewis takes it with a curt nod and then crushes it to wet, sickening pulp in his fist, and he feeds it all back to Charles with a hushed _you're so amazing_ before he rises and leaves Charles spread in the middle of the inexcusable mess the contents of his mortal coil have made of the bed.

Charles lies there with his listless eyes fixed on the small lights sunk in the ceiling, the hot blood he's bathing in quickly turning frozen, and wonders how he can _still_ be breathing. Perhaps he can get through and sew the abyssal wound himself, after all. Gather and re-arrange his innards as though they were a mere jigsaw puzzle and whiten the bed linens all anew. Lewis straightens the collar of his jacket.  
  



	4. Charles/Daniel: Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The condition evolves rapidly as autumn leads the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, this very angsty take on what happened to Charles and Daniel after the famous (and much referred to) Vegas episode is incoherent and unusually unpolished but just wouldn't leave me alone until out. So, here it is. Ta-dah~ No real warnings this time, apart from horrible pretentiousness I think resulted from reading the second Poldark novel at the time of writing :')

The attempts to resuscitate cease and the patient is wearily pronounced gone on a colourless winter's day, in the gulf opening where January turns into February yet still feels unchanged; where days forged out of shapeless minutes follow each other, not one the longer or more luminous than the other, and the cold constantly searches for openings in one's skin and mind to use for slithering in and then never finding a way out.

They say that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. There is truth to it, of course, more than anyone would wish or like to admit. And if only it was a question of things simply _staying_, freezing still in the endless chain of snapshots lives and memories are made of. But for Charles Vegas becomes a grave instead of a picture, and the lunacy-shining lights are the headstone, and Charles' hopeless confusion and disoriented wistfulness and the words he tries to give them forms with grow into a lament he can never sing.

Every imaginable treatment and drug has been tested on the patient, every possible and impossible combination of them, regardless of their sensibility or reasonability, prescription and self-medication all alike. Drinking, texting, drinking _and_ texting, over-exercising as a botched exorcism, various forms of self-degradation (mental, verbal and physical). He has experimented even with alternatives such as _asking_, laboriously wording out things like _what happened? Where did you go? Why are you not answering me?_ And Daniel says back stupid, imbecile-sounding things like _look, it wasn't wise. I care about you and I'm trying to protect you._ And _it was stupid, alright, and we shouldn't have done any of it, and it's better if you forget all about me_.

(The worst, stupidest, feeblest one of all is the time he says _I'm sorry_.)

_I don't want to be protected_, Charles thinks, stares blankly at the words on his phone screen and in his mind, sees nothing. _I don't want or need your useless fucking protection. I want you. I want you to rip me open and eat me away until my flesh is yours and your flesh is mine and nothing ends nor begins between us._

The condition evolves rapidly as autumn leads the way. The symptoms include but are not limited to: a constant, inexplicable feeling of drowning into despair, increased frustration and simultaneous yearning, repeated reading of message chains, remembering certain texts by heart, recurring attempts to say anything at all and only ending up feeling like the most pitiful and attention-whoring lifeform in known history. It builds excruciating metastases into Charles' gut and spine and makes them painfully melt and break, and in the worst stages he finds himself wanting to not exist after he has <s>reminisced</s> fantasised about Daniel's hands on him, gotten himself off and burst into tears while climaxing.

There is no true mending, ever, simply steadying levels of agony and growing resistance to all known treatments. His heart stops and needs to be defibrillated four times over the winter after Daniel's responses (counter-reactions to Charles' reflexes of speaking and then regretting it), lucid dreams, sweet nightmares. No cure has been found despite his best efforts. The ailment takes him and will be in him for as long as he is.

There is no true mending, ever, as much as there is resignation; the tired and reluctant surrender in front of something impossible to conquer. The metastases lie deep beneath now, far out of sight and reach. His being has been consumed to the wick. He lies down like a wounded animal waiting for the mercy of death, too weak to run, a sickness-ridden, spent creature on his own bed in his luxurious cage.

No true mending. The only treatment left untried is finally giving up.

Charles opens their convo once more and scrolls slowly up, just a few messages back. Cheers, here's to the last time. His eyes burn and the same burn sits in his stomach and shoves him to the precipice of vomiting. Nauseatingly pathetic, all of it, his words and tries and affections and infatuated heart, absolutely pathetic. All of him. He stares at the screen for a minute or two longer, long enough for it to make rectangle-shaped lights explode onto the backs of his eyelids as soon as he shuts them, and then he chooses to delete everything without seeing anything.

Deceased. Time of death: most likely before any of it was even born.


End file.
